The City of Lost Causes
by Dorian Gray
Summary: Tsuzuki watches over an injured Hisoka.


Standard Disclaimer: Yami no Matsuei © Matsuhita Youko, Central Park Media, et al.

Rating: G 

Summary: Tsuzuki watches over an injured Hisoka. 

* * *

The City of Lost Causes

By Dorian Gray (hinikunokotsuzui@yahoo.com)

_

_

Through me is the way to join the lost people.

-- Inferno, Dante Alighieri 

You know you could turn back, go home, get some sleep. You know you don't have to be here, waiting. You know you're acting like an idiot. But you don't care. 

He'll probably yell at you -- he's not good with words, but he's great with insults -- maybe you deserve it. Maybe you don't. Maybe it doesn't matter, because you'd still be sitting here come sunrise -- even if he meant every last thing he's going to throw at you tomorrow. Which he won't even though he'd like to think otherwise. Ah well, what do they say? -- the best liars believe they're telling the truth. 

He did something stupid again. You can't make up your mind whether you're angry at him or not. Sometimes you almost want to call _him_ an idiot. But you don't -- you understand a little too well what drives him. That makes it hard to stay mad at him. Plus it wouldn't do any good -- you figured that out a long time ago. He's like a dog that expects to be kicked. It wouldn't faze him. Kindness? now, that throws him for a loop. Affection? something between a slap and a glass of cold water in the face. No clue how to react. It would almost be funny, if it weren't so tragic. If that bastard hadn't -- Oh great, now you're angry again. Way to help your partner: come to his bedside and bombard him with negative emotions why don't you. What could be better for an empath, idiot.

You look at him, well, what you can see of him under the bandages. He got messed up pretty bad, but he'll be fine by morning. What does he say? -- it's only pain. That's so him: you wish you could smile at it -- you know, that upward motion of the lips that can solve all of life's problems. 

You reach out and push his bangs away from his face. He'd bite your hand off if he were awake. You don't realize you are smiling until it fades -- you wish he'd stop hurting himself. You wish he'd never been hurt. You wish he wouldn't get himself into these messes -- but he wants power so badly. You can understand that, even if in the end he only hurts himself more. And why? -- to get the power he thinks he needs to keep himself from getting hurt. That's life for you. 

The kicker is he doesn't want to be protected either -- because that means he's helpless and weak, at least in his book. If he feels any gratitude towards you, it's desperate and instinctual -- a flash like panic -- and then it all runs to self-hatred. But you don't want gratitude and you're going to keep on protecting him whether he likes it or not. He's your partner. It's your duty to keep him safe. You're lying to yourself, but it doesn't bother you -- What was that about liars and telling the truth? Oh well, you pegged yourself for a hypocrite long ago. Whatever works, right? Why change.

You finally pull your hand back. He's so pale -- sheets, skin, not much difference. He nearly bled to death. That's it, you _are_ mad at him. You're hurt and angry. He could have been killed. And he didn't care. He was being a selfish brat, thinking only of himself and what he wanted. Didn't he even stop to think that there might be people who'd care if he died? That you can't just do that to someone. You can't just leave them like -- oh, wait. Whoops, you're being a hypocrite again . . . oh well . . . all you can do is try and try and try . . .

It's just starting to get light out. The sky is still dark, but now you can see the silhouettes of trees, black and dark blue. The stars are gone. He's started to move slightly, jumpy little twitches. The lines of old pain are gathering in his face, twisting around his mouth. But he doesn't cry out, doesn't make a sound. There's something pitiful in that. It makes you angry. You don't like being angry. You don't like suffering. You don't like people getting hurt. And you're never quite able to stop it. All your power and you can't even protect your partner. Or that girl. Or her. Or him. Or that one. Or the one before. Or yourself. 

He envies you -- you know that. Maybe someday he'll get all that power he wants. He can find out for himself that it does no good. Nothing changes. You can't stop people from getting hurt. You can't stop yourself from hurting. You can't protect anyone, no matter how hard you try. Yet you can't stop yourself from trying. You find you don't want to stop, even if in the end you only cause more pain. Is that being selfish? . . . you can't tell. 

He twitches again, jerking -- Why is there so much pain? 

Why can't you stop it? 

Why must you add to it? 

You never wanted to hurt anyone. 

And you can never stop hurting. 

He's starting to shake now, convulsive little shudders. You want to make it stop -- you want to wake him. He's on painkillers -- he probably can't wake up. You probably couldn't wake him either, even if you tried. Wherever he is, he's trapped. What would he say? -- it's only a nightmare. Oh, he hates them all right, but he likes to pretend they don't bother him. You let him pretend, just like he lets you. Between the two of you, there might be just enough to make one real person. Or maybe all the fake smiles would cancel out all the fake scowls and you'd be left with nothing again. Maybe not -- math was never your strong suit.

The sun is just starting to come up. Yellow, pink, gold, the usual. It's pretty. You like sunrises. A new day, hope and all that. Plus no meal has as many sweets as breakfast. Somehow the further you go in the day, the less acceptable it is to eat sugar. That always struck you as a little arbitrary. You could sneak off and get some doughnuts, but he might wake up while you're gone. You're still a little angry with him, but you want to be there when he wakes up -- just so he knows that someone cared enough to spend the night watching over him. You couldn't do anything, you couldn't protect him, you couldn't ease his pain, but you can watch him sleep. Such a small thing -- but it's something, and he knows it -- after all, he wouldn't yell at you if it didn't mean something to him. You don't mind really: you understand.

The sky is beginning to work towards blue. Clear -- no clouds. The room's no longer so dark, but glows with a diffuse light. The world's quiet. He's gone still, tense not restful. His eyes dart under the lids. The pain in his face, the pain in his clenched fists, the pain in his silence -- you can't take any of it away. 

You can't protect.

You can't heal.

You can't.

But you try.

And so you watch and wait as the little white room get lighter and lighter. You're waiting for him to wake up. And when he does, all you'll be able to do is smile. Such a small thing . . .


End file.
